In the Light of a Family's Love
by Freya
Summary: A multiple-POV of the Staff, set in the moments after the first scene of "ITSOTG."


"In the Light of a Familys' Love" @page Section1 {size: 8.5in 11.0in; margin: 1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin: .5in; mso-footer-margin: .5in; mso-paper-source: 0; } P.MsoNormal { pont-SIZE: 12pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; color black; pont-FAMILY: "Times New Roman"; mso-style-parent: ""; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; mso-fareast-pont-family: "Times New Roman" } LI.MsoNormal { pont-SIZE: 12pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; color black; pont-FAMILY: "Times New Roman"; mso-style-parent: ""; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; mso-fareast-pont-family: "Times New Roman" } DIV.MsoNormal { pont-SIZE: 12pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt; color black; pont-FAMILY: "Times New Roman"; mso-style-parent: ""; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; mso-fareast-pont-family: "Times New Roman" } A:link { color blue; TEXT-DECORATION: underline; text-underline: single } SPAN.MsoHyperlink { color blue; TEXT-DECORATION: underline; text-underline: single } A:visited { color red; TEXT-DECORATION: underline; text-underline: single } SPAN.MsoHyperlinkFollowed { color red; TEXT-DECORATION: underline; text-underline: single } P { pont-SIZE: 12pt; color black; pont-FAMILY: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-pont-family: "Times New Roman" } DIV.Section1 { page: Section1 } 

"In the Light of a Familys' Love" 

By Meggie 

Summary: A missing scene from "ITSOTG."

Spoilers: Many, of course, for "ITSOTG" Parts 1 and 2. Mild ones for  
"Crackpots…" and "Noel," but nothing that will ruin either, I hope.

Warnings: A few bad words here and there.

Acknowledgements: Much, much thanks to Gabrielle and Dee, two of   
the foremost Beta Goddesses in the biz. (A job that, sadly, does not   
pay well.) Anything that's right in this is due to them. Anything that's   
wrong is due to me. Also, thanks to Dee for posting this to our website! (Come visit visit [Vox Populi][1] for all of our fics!)

__

I catch him as he begins to fall and lower him carefully to the ground.   
Some distant part of my mind wonders if I'm still yelling for a medic.   
I hope I am, but everything has turned a little surreal since I found Josh.   
I notice that his arms are now shaking, straining with the effort of   
keeping his hands over the wound in his chest.

Let's see what we're facing, huh?" I try to be upbeat, but it comes out  
rather tersely. I reach to undo the top half of his shirt so that it won't   
constrict his breathing and so that I can get a better idea of where he's   
been hit. Maybe it's not quite as bad as I-

Oh, God. It is. It's exactly as bad as I thought.

"Josh?" My friend's eyes turn to meet mine. "You can let go   
now, if you want. I've got it covered." I slide my hands underneath   
his, and take over the job of keeping him alive. His arms relax and   
fall to his sides. 

"I'm going to have to use some pressure to slow the bleeding," I explain.   
I wish that there was some way I could do this gently, but I have to   
press down hard to have any effect. Josh groans. Something in the way   
he does it catches my attention and I lean over to his face to listen to his  
breathing.

His lips nearly touch my ear because I have to lean in so far but I  
recognize the wheeze I hear. Now I know that the panic in his face isn't  
entirely due to the realization that he's been shot. It's also that he can't  
breathe.

"I need a medic!" This time, I consciously shout it. My friend shouldn't   
be denied such a thing as oxygen.

"Toby?" I know that whisper in my ear can't be Josh's voice, because   
Josh _never_ sounds weak. I yell for a doctor again.

"Toby?" I can't ignore the hand that reaches up to grasp at mine,   
though. I wish I didn't have anything better to do than to hold that   
hand, to reassure him that the doctors will be here soon, but I've got   
to concentrate on the rather important task of keeping Josh's blood in   
his body, where it should be.

"Calm down, Josh. Don't worry about talking right now." My words   
seem to only agitate him further, as he twists his legs, acting like he's   
trying to sit up again.

"Okay?" he gasps, tugging at my arm a little. I should've known he'd go   
and do just what I warned him not to.

"Yes, you'll be okay," I assure him. His injuries are what I'm most  
concerned about at the moment and I assume they're what he's referring   
to. I learn quickly that I'm mistaken.

"No." Now he's got his fingers wrapped around one of my wrists and is  
yanking at it none-too-gently. I know it's partly that the pressure on his  
chest is hurting him even more and he wants to alleviate it, but he also  
seems to want my attention. I turn to look at his face. He's   
obviously still in shock but I recognize the frustration that can be seen   
in his eyes when people aren't listening to him. 

"You okay?" 

"Of course I'm okay," I say, exasperated. "I wasn't the one who had to go  
and get shot." Surprisingly, this placates him. His hands fall back to his   
sides again. He stares beyond me, up at the sky.

"Sam?"

"He's okay."

"CJ?"

"She's okay."

"Donna?"

"Wasn't even here." I'm thinking he's about to rattle through the names   
of the entire staff when his voice fades out again.

"Cold," he whispers nonchalantly.

"Cold?" I repeat. His eyes are distant, regarding the stars above us. "Get  
back here, Josh. Hold on." I want to slip out of my jacket and cover him  
with it, wrap it around him to keep him warm. I can't, though. Both my   
arms are otherwise occupied. A chill runs through me as I realize I've   
got Josh's blood on my hands in every sense of the phrase. I start screaming   
for a doctor again. There's no way someone's not listening.

  


Toby's yelling again. It's distracting and I wish he'd stop, but it gives  
him something to do I guess. He told me to hold on, but he's not really  
giving me any hints as to what I'm supposed to do that with. He refuses   
to hold my hand and whenever I grab at his, I keep slipping.

So I can't really hold onto that.

In fact, there's lots of stuff that I _could_ hold onto, but none that I'd  
particularly like to. The sensation of ice-water in my veins is rather  
unpleasant, as is the feeling of pain shooting through me. The last is  
interspersed with moments when I can't feel anything, which are,   
strangely, just as bad. I don't want to hold onto these things. I can't   
hold onto these things. Just the thought of doing so makes me want to   
let go.

"Hold on," Toby orders again. _I'm trying to_, I promise, although the  
words don't seem to quite make it to my mouth. _But to what?_

  


I heard the Big Guy yelling for an ambulance a few minutes ago,   
but it only just now occurs to me that maybe I should tell him I've   
already called one. From here, at the bottom of the stairs, I can see   
him bending over at the top. He was all right when I saw him shortly   
after the President was taken away, and I haven't heard any more   
gunfire since then.

In my weary state, I assume that he's fallen while climbing the stairs.   
I jog to the top, about to tell him that an ambulance has been called.   
Except that, at the top, instead of finding Toby overreacting about an   
injured ankle, I find Toby trying to round-up much-much-needed   
medical help for a wounded man. A wounded man who's dressed like   
Josh. Who looks like Josh. Who Toby keeps calling Josh. It can't be   
Josh, though, because I would've known if he'd gotten shot.

A friend just knows these things.

But it is Josh, and he's been hurt, and, oh, God, he's in pain, and he's  
cold. The only one I can do anything about is the latter. I tear off my  
jacket. Toby looks up at me as I kneel quickly by Josh's side.

"Gunshot wound," Toby explains tersely. "He's been hit."

I know the emotional turmoil he's going through, so I refrain from   
replying in a snarky, "No, really!" fashion.

"I called an ambulance. It should be here soon." Trying hard now to   
ignore Toby's hands, which are already soaked with blood. Trying to   
ignore the slightly dazed, slightly panicked look in Josh's eyes. I cover   
his torso with my jacket, careful not to disturb Toby's hands.

"Sam?" Josh asks. "Toby said you weren't here."

"That was Donna," Toby reminds him.

"Oh. Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks." I glance nervously at Toby, who shrugs.

"Why's that?"

"For coming. For leaving. For coming with me." His disjointed   
comments worry me. I reach beneath the jacket to hold his right hand.   
His fingers are chilly, but they grip mine with what, in his condition,   
could be called strength.

"Hold on," I beg him, squeezing his hand. He rolls his eyes.

"Have you and Toby been talking? You really need to find some new  
material." 

He gasps and coughs. I know better than to try to tell him not to   
talk. I really should, though. He's just exhausting himself. He should   
be concentrating on breathing. Some part of my subconscious, a part   
I'd really rather not be hearing from right now, whispers that the reason  
I'm not telling Josh to quiet down is because I know these may be my   
last words with him.

My best friend is dying.

Josh is dying.

Now _I'm_ screaming for a doctor.

  


_Oh, Sam,_ I want to sigh. _Not you, too_. But I wouldn't mean it.   
It's really kind of nice having Toby and Sam here, even if they're   
raising such a ruckus. I feel like one of those Pok'emon-obsessed   
kids. Except that, instead of an assortment of strange creatures, I'm   
collecting Senior Staffers. I glance at Toby, who's glaring- at what,   
I'm not sure. I can't help it. I picture him with pointy cartoon-ears and  
whiskers, hopping around a meadow. I laugh at the image, which   
catches Sam and Toby's attention.

"Gotta catch 'em all!" I chuckle, but they don't seem to get the joke,  
sadly. Sam looks even more concerned now, if that's possible. He   
squeezes my hand. I think I squeeze his back.

"Thanks," I tell him again. "For leaving…"

"For coming with you." He nods. "I know."

Well, good. As long as he knows. I've always worried about what   
might have happened if Sam hadn't left the firm and gone with me to   
work for the campaign. A shiver runs through me as I realize I haven't   
asked about Bartlet himself yet.

"The President." I struggle to sit up, this time making it so far that Toby  
has to push me back down. The glance he and Sam exchange doesn't   
escape me.

"He's okay. He _has_ to be okay." Toby growls.

One doesn't argue with a growling Toby. Well, actually, I usually do,   
but I don't feel like it right now… I can't breathe. I must _be _breathing,  
otherwise I wouldn't be able to be panicking about such a thing, but it   
feels as if I'm drowning. Just like that time when I was 7, and Joanie   
had to drag my sorry ass out of the hotel pool, after I'd swallowed too   
much water.

I miss Joanie. I miss my big sister.

As if summoned by the thought of big sisters, I notice CJ leaning   
over me. Her hair is haloed by a nearby streetlamp. She's so beautiful;   
I want to cry at the sight of her. Maybe I do. She smiles at me, and   
reaches down to brush at the corners of my eyes. I think she's kneeling   
beside me, because her face is suddenly much closer.

"Listen," she orders me. "Do you hear that, Joshua? Do you hear the  
sirens?" 

I nod, hoping this isn't a trick question. Honestly, I can't hear anything   
besides CJ's voice and Sam and Toby arguing in the background.

"They'll be here soon. You just need to hold on until the ambulances get  
here." She begins brushing her long fingers through my hair. It's such a  
calming gesture, I forget all about wanting to ask them how they can   
justify all of these requests for me to hold on.

Can I hold on to them? Our little family makes a pretty good anchor.   
I consider them as my eyes drift shut: Toby, the big brother, Sam, the  
youngest brother, and Claudia Jean, the big sister. Or is she more like   
my little sister? I consider all the times she's chased Sam and me out   
of her office for bugging her. Nope, definitely the big sister. _Yeah,_   
I think as I clutch my younger brother's hand. _I think I can._

  


I hope it's not the recent shooting, but my thoughts have turned rather  
homicidal. Such as…

_If Josh dies, I'll kill him_.

I said it was homicidal. I didn't say it was logical.

His eyes just closed. I hope that means he's conserving his energy.  
Poor Sam. He looks as if he's going out of his mind with worry. Not   
that I blame him. We've just been shot at, the President might be   
injured and now we find that Josh has been lying on the cold ground,   
bleeding. I'd be more scared if Sam _didn't_ look frantic.

Toby's got a different expression, naturally. This one's equal parts a  
feral, angry glare when he looks in the direction the shooters were   
probably perched, and a heart-breakingly sad look of guilt when he   
glances at Josh. Toby and Sam are theorizing about why the ambulances   
are taking their own sweet time in getting here. Sam thinks that it   
involves the EMT's grasp of simple directions. Toby's theory seems   
to take the EMT's stupidity as a given, and goes right on to question   
their hygiene, morality and character.

I consider mentioning the horrible traffic that the ambulance must be  
facing, but the last thing I want to do right now is to get dragged into  
their argument. I've got more important things to concentrate on.

Josh's hair is wiry beneath my fingers. Even as I smooth it back, it  
immediately springs up again. As rebellious as its owner, I suppose. I  
consider scolding Josh for his hairs' behavior, and then giggle at the  
thought of doing so. Sam's eyeing me now. I remember that he can't   
know what's funny, as I haven't said it out loud. I quit giggling quickly.   
Sam needs me to hold it together. _I_ need me to hold it together.

The sirens sound very close, which relieves me slightly. I wish I could  
delude myself into believing that, when they arrive, all will be fine.  
But I can't. So, for right now, I can only help by keeping Josh calm.  
Said Deputy Chief of Staff opens his eyes to gaze directly at me. He  
suddenly looks very lucid, in contrast to a few minutes ago when I   
ordered him to hold on.

"Hurt?" he asks softly.

"Me?" I let out a rather undignified snort. "Far from it." 

Josh narrows his eyes suspiciously, as if I'm lying to him. I wonder if   
there's something in my expression that I'm unaware of.

"Truth, Claudia Jean." 

My given name causes me to chuckle, but this time the humor isn't   
terror-based.

"The truth, Joshua?" I lean toward him so that our faces are almost  
touching. "The truth is that I'm doing a hell of a lot better than you   
are." I try to stifle a smirk. Smirking is the action that has never failed   
to get Josh and I into trouble. Since we find the same things funny, all   
it takes is a glance at the others smirking face to send us into a giggling   
fit. Leo has, more than once, booted us out of any room in which he   
feels the fate of the campaign/ administration/ nation could be ruined   
by inappropriate laughter. He says he doesn't want the U.S. being bombed   
because Josh and I happened to meet each other's eyes at the wrong   
moment during an official's speech. Josh and I have *tried* to remind   
Leo that it only happened once, although _I_ claim it was because the  
diplomat was incorrectly pronouncing "peninsula" and _Josh_ claims it   
was the context in which he was saying it. Nonetheless, Leo remains   
steadfast in his proclamation that we can't be trusted when we're in   
what he refers to as "a mood."

God, I hope Josh and I can have the opportunity to once again make   
Leo worry we'll bring about a nuclear attack. 

My attempt to suppress my smirk is apparently unsuccessful, as I can   
tell when Josh breaks into a grin. My own face splits with a seemingly  
inevitable answering smile, and before I know it, we're both chuckling.

Unfortunately, this sets Josh off on a coughing fit that lasts for several  
seconds. He can't draw a full breath, which only serves to make it   
worse. I glance at Sam, who appears frantic. He looks like he's fighting   
the instinct to pick Josh up and pat him on the back to clear his lungs. I   
wouldn't recognize the expression, except that I'm probably wearing it,   
too.

I notice that the ambulance has finally turned the corner onto the street  
that we're on. It occurs to me that the paramedics will have to not only  
make it up the stairs and through the crowd, they'll have to do so with  
their equipment and a stretcher, and all of their other EMT accessories.   
I wonder, as I stare at Josh's frighteningly pale face and hear his gasps   
for air, if he'll be able to make it that long.

Toby doesn't wonder. I think Toby's already made up his mind about   
how long Josh can wait. In a move that I'm sure is condemned by all   
First Aid handbooks, he slips one arm under Josh's back and the other   
beneath his knees. Toby stands in a fluid motion, turning Josh toward   
him just enough so that his head and neck are supported against Toby's  
shoulder. Josh's eyes are shut tightly, and I'm not sure he's even aware   
that he's been picked up.

Toby heads down the stairs as fast as he can carry Josh, which is  
surprisingly fast. I worry that he'll stumble and my next illogical   
thought comes to me as Sam and I follow them down the steps and  
that thought is: _If Toby falls down and dies, I'll have to kill him, too_.

  


Strength, in the right context, can be a very comforting thing. Like   
when a mother hen protects her young, or when rescue workers break   
down walls to get at people who are trapped. Toby's arms feel like  
they're the strongest things in the universe when they wrap around me  
and pick me up. Nobody's done that since…

Oh, no. Now I'm missing my dad.

At least I can breathe more easily in this sitting position. Toby's  
shoulder is warm and solid against my cheek. I want to tell him that   
he makes a good pillow, but I suddenly register the sensation of   
movement. He's either carrying me somewhere, or he's rocking me,   
and I decide it's the former. The last thing I want to imagine right now   
is Toby going maternal on me. He starts bellowing at someone. I'm   
pretty sure it's not me. 

He sounds panicked, but I can't make out the exact words he's saying.   
My little coughing jag seems to have triggered an attention-deficit   
disorder that I was previously unaware of. The rocking motion stops.   
There's a new voice, one that I don't recognize. The new person and   
Toby yell at each other for a while. I hear a door open, and there's a   
loud, snapping noise. My body involuntarily starts in Toby's arms. It   
takes the sound of something unfolding to convince me that it was just  
someone setting up something and not more gunfire.

"It's okay, Josh." Toby holds me a little tighter.

I find myself remembering how we met in New Hampshire. How I   
wouldn't have met CJ if I hadn't gone to New Hampshire.

I've got to get to New Hampshire. I won't know Toby and CJ if I   
don't get there. I won't get to see them and Sam every day if I don't go.   
I miss them already.

Wait, that can't be right. I can't miss someone if I haven't met   
them yet. I open my eyes and smile at Toby. He's decided to go a bit   
blurry at the moment, but I can see the reassuring grin he throws   
back at me.

At least, I think it's supposed to be reassuring. It looks a lot more like  
he's about to hurl.

The same unfamiliar voice asks Toby to do something and I find myself  
gently settled back into what's probably a stretcher. I'm suddenly   
accosted by new sensations. Someone yanks my eyelids open and   
shines a painfully bright light at my face. What remains of my shirt   
is cut apart. I shiver at the sudden chill. I hear someone asking a Mr.   
Lyman if he can breathe and I wonder what's happened to my dad. Sam   
tells them something and they start calling me Josh.

"Josh, can you breathe?"

"No." I try to sit up, missing the warmth of Toby's arms. Someone   
firmly pushes me back down and an air mask is placed over my mouth   
and nose. I feel fingers brush my hair. I open my eyes to see CJ   
standing above me.

"Stay with us, Joshua," she says. 

I can barely hear her over the sirens. She must see my struggle for   
comprehension because she leans in closer.

"Please hold on."

"Trying," I whisper. 

She smiles. A little sadly, but she smiles. "You'd better." 

My eyes close and I feel a sisterly kiss grace my forehead. There's   
a clanging sound, accompanied by the now-familiar feeling of  
movement. I think I'm being lifted into the ambulance. I once again   
struggle to sit up, not wanting to be taken away from these people,   
my family.

This time, I fall back on my own.

Sam is yelling. He's telling someone that they'll meet them at the  
hospital. _Hey, that's cool,_ I think. I'll see you soon, then, because   
I think we're headed that way, too. I'll meet you there, man, just like   
that time I met you at that place you used to work at, the one I can   
never remember the name of. You know, that place you hated. You'll   
love working for this guy I saw, though. He's the real thing, Sam. He's   
a good man. I'd hoped you would come work with me for Hoynes, but   
this guy's not like Hoynes. Hoynes would have destroyed your   
idealism. I realize that now. He nearly destroyed mine. But it was   
restored by this guy, this guy I went and saw in New Hampshire.   
You've got to come with me, Sam. We're going to work for him, this   
good man, and help him run the country and do good things. 

And Leo will be there, too. Have you met Leo? He was my dad's   
friend. You'd like him. He's… well, he's nothing like you, but you'd   
like him. And there's another guy, one that I glimpsed him at the   
speech, but didn't meet. His name's Toby. He'll be your boss and our   
beloved big brother. He acts grumpy, but don't fall for it. He's one of   
the kindest, coolest people in the world.

One of the other coolest people in the world will also work with us.   
Toby will go and get her, just like I got you. I can't wait to meet her.   
She has this infectious laugh and a wicked sense of humor.

But they're not all. There'll be my assistant, who's swiftly taking over  
every aspect of my life, and I'd be worried about that if she didn't   
appear to have good intentions. And the President's secretary, who   
tolerates us and occasionally bestows upon us cookies of mythical   
goodness. And the President's aide, a sweet-natured kid who'll fall in   
love with the President's daughter, and there will probably be a little   
bit of controversy about that, but I'm sure people will learn to adjust   
because they're so perfect for each other, Sam, So perfect. 

And Bartlet's such a good man, even if you can't ignore his attempts   
to feed us chili. He's going to become President. He's going to make   
our country, maybe even the world, a better place to live in.

I'd be willing to die to help him do that.

A voice above me says something to the effect of that not being   
out of the realm of possibility. I open my eyes and note with   
disinterest the crowd of people attempting a bunch of medical stuff   
on me. I wonder if I've been talking all this time. I suppose I should   
worry that I might start announcing stuff I'm not supposed to about   
the government, but I'm not concerned. I figure things will work   
themselves out. 

I glance at the faces of the medics. They don't appear to notice that   
I'm staring at them, and continue going about their job. All of them   
working together like that makes me wonder what I'm supposed to be   
doing. 

What was it Toby, Sam and CJ told me? To hold on? I kept asking to   
what, but I think I know now. There are only three places on my body   
that feel warm. My hand feels warm where Sam held it in his own.   
One side of my body feels warm-the side that was against Toby when   
he carried me down those steps. My forehead feels warm, too, and it   
amazes me that just a slight kiss from CJ could do that. 

And what I can hold onto, I think, as the sirens grow painfully loud in   
my ears, is that warmth. 

I can hold onto the warmth of my friends' love. 

   [1]: http://www.angelfire.com/rant/joshlyman



End file.
